Odds and Ends
by igirisexual
Summary: There are always bits and pieces of what used to be and what will never return. It is a long and battered story, dotted in stains of blood and dirt. 1776 screams into their heads. USUK drabble.


**prompt 11/100: odds and ends**

* * *

Everything here is covered in dust. His fingers brush over dusty surfaces, clearing grit from the tops of old hardcover books, ones that he had sworn he would read. He had never even opened them. He wonders if any of this was worth keeping. Things are scattered about. It causes for serious clutter, and he frowns. Chapped lips lace his expression, one caught between anguish and heartache.

His calloused fingers drift from object to object. _This is nothing_, he tells himself. _I have faced more. I am not weak. I will move on._ He has not. He has been in here many times before, but his mind snags on everything and anything, like he is cotton and they are barbs in a wire fence. An old suit. It is too small for him, and even when new, it was tight against his build. He longs to feel as he once did. He cannot.

He folds the suit and tucks it away. It is not something he wishes to remember, for if he does, he will remember the pain that followed. He is better than this. His fingers waltz about the room, being his eyes and mind as they dance. They land upon a toy. An old gift, a collection of wooden figures painted colours now faded.

The memories overwhelm him, and he sits down. One of the figures, a worn soldier, rests in his hand. The wood is cold to the touch, and he stares down into the painted face. He wonders why he cannot think properly. He does not know. He thinks he comes up with a conclusion, but it is proved false as he grips onto the soldier tighter. Tears drip from his eyes, those eyes as blue as the sky before _that_ day. He wondered if his eyes would also fade to a rainy gray some day.

He did not regret his choice. He still does not. It was freedom he sought, it was freedom he received. Taxes and stress, bad treatment and loneliness. They are all ingredients that mix to an explosion of red and blue amongst the grayest sky. He did not think twice about his movement. It weighs on his mind often nowadays. He still holds not an ounce of regret. He does not need to. He is free.

* * *

The other man, he has gifted hands. Once, long ago, he had carved and painted. Now, he kept to crochet and needlework. Anything of what he used to do brings on too many memories. He hates memories. All they do is pry and peck at your mind, until you can only scream and yell and cry and wail. He kept his silence.

He had been searching for a novel to read. He had quickly become distracted by something behind the bookshelf. He looks down, smooth fingers only touching at the wall momentarily. Something had fallen down here a long time ago. He picks the offending object and feels choked instantly.

It is the one soldier. The one he never finished. It had been chipped when he had been carving it. It was a failure. It was only half-painted. He drops to his knees. Clutching the doll to his chest, he is unable to stop crying. He had messed up long ago. Some brother he had been. Neglecting. Mistreating. Taxing. He had been too confident.

Independence. The word rang in his head and made him feel ill. How long had it been since then? How well had that man grown? He is stunning now. So brave. Loud, unable to contain himself. America, land of the free. He snickers bitterly to himself.

He is alone in his home now, no longer a big brother to that cheery boy. He wipes his tears and looks down at the figure within his palms. He misses the pitter-patter of the child's feet around him. He misses those smiling blue eyes that begged for stories when he came closer. Such a sweet child. He stands, brushing his hair out of his eyes. He has forgotten about picking out a novel.

The other man had looked so dashing in the suit. It aches to think about him. Even now, the other man's attire was lousy, and if it did not hurt to bring up the subject, he would scold the other man and give him better attire. He frowns. The other man smiled so often. He questions how. Then again, he has a lame understanding of the man's cheeriness. That man is so much stronger than he is. He, on the other hand, was just weak on the inside.

He contemplates tossing the soldier into the crackling fire on the other side of the room. He wanders towards the fireplace, staring down to the licking flames and smiling weakly. He could never do that. Memories may be bitter and hurtful, but amongst the many bad, there were good. Although he wants to forget so much, there were also those moments he wishes he could relive.

When the child would call his name and he would turn, only to frown and scold the child for bringing home a new pet that he could not keep. Those nights when the boy would sneak into his bed, for it was too cold to sleep alone.

He wipes another tear.

That was the past. He needs not to think about the odds and ends that clutter his brain, home, life. _They are from the past. The past_, he tells himself. _I am not weak. I will move on._ He will not, however. Not for many years still to come, for the more he tries to let go, the more he secures his grip. The strongest love does not falter or fracture so quickly.


End file.
